


Tolo Dan Na Ngalad

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Elves, Gap Filler, Gen, Healing, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Rivendell | Imladris, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5678566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A piece to fill the narrative gap in Tolkien's tale.  What happened between Frodo arriving in Rivendell and his awakening?  It is very slightly AU.  It is a reworking of one of my earliest fanfics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I do not own any of the characters or settings in this story. They belong to JRR Tolkien. The events fill a gap in his narrative but refer to those in his work. I’m writing this as fanfic and, as such, I do not seek to make any money from its publication.

It is slightly AU.

 

They would be arriving soon and Elrond checked the array of bottles and boxes on the bedside table again. He had no need of the message, borne by the swiftest rider from the ford, to tell him to prepare this sick room for as soon as Frodo Baggins had crossed the Bruinen into his domain the lord of the valley had known that something was terribly amiss. The agony radiating from Bilbo’s nephew had made the healer grip Mithrandir’s arm so tightly that the elderly wizard had winced.

The sound of soft footfalls drew his gaze to the chamber door in surprise. In normal circumstances he would have known of Arwen’s presence long before she reached the room, but he had drawn in those senses to preserve his sanity. Frodo was close and the only way to shelter from the pain he radiated and the jangling noise of The One was for Elrond to lock himself away within his own mind.

“Their rooms are prepared, Ada. And I have set out food, water for bathing and what clothing we could find to fit them.”

Like her mother before her, Arwen could soothe his fea with only her presence. Elrond knew he could rely upon his daughter to lift from him the burden of organising such matters, leaving him free to deal with the injured of body and mind - not that Arwen did not bring a healing of her own to the tasks she performed.

“Thank you, child.” Elrond tilted his head, listening. “They are here.” He let his gaze sweep the room a final time before taking her arm in his. “We should go out to meet them.” Father and daughter slipped out into the cool autumn twilight to greet their guests.

Arwen’s inner cry of dismay as her care-worn lover and the rest of his weary party entered the courtyard rang clear in Elrond’s fea. Even without heightened healer’s senses his father heart would have felt her reaction when she saw her mortal love. Touching her hand, where it rested upon his sleeve, Elrond sent calm assurance into her fea and heard her heart slow to a more sedate pace.

With a quick nod of greeting to his lord, Glorfindel turned to lead away his horse and a small pony. Ashfaloth still stepped tall and proud but the pony’s head hung low, dejected, weary with travel and weighed down with care. The golden elf was whispering quietly in its ear as he led the animal gently away and others of the household escort could be heard beyond the gate, unpacking gear and leading away their own chargers.

A little mud-spattered party stood, silent and hunch shouldered on the cobbles, in the gathering dusk. Elrond knew of hobbits, of course (Bilbo was probably waiting for them by now), but they still fascinated him. Legend called them “Halflings” and he knew that many thought that referred to their physical stature only. With senses enhanced by a ring of power, however, Elrond could see what many others could not. Like men, they were mortal, but there was a brightness to their fea’s. They seemed to form a spiritual bridge between mortal and immortal.

A gentle squeeze from his daughter’s hand reminded Elrond that he had been silent for too long and the Lord of Imladris stepped forward alone, his warm, rich voice at one with the evening air.

“I am Elrond and I bid you welcome to my home. I will not weary you further with greetings, for your journey has been long and perilous.” He turned to beckon to his daughter. “This is my daughter, the Lady Arwen. She will show you to your rooms and see to your comfort.” Arwen stepped forward, her graceful arm outstretched to gather the hobbits away, and her father was once more grateful for her quiet support.

Finally, Elrond moved to stand before Aragorn and the small bundle cradled in his arms. There was little to be seen of Frodo Baggins, only a mass of dark and sweated curls nestled in a bundle of muddy cloaks and blankets, enfolded tenderly against the ranger’s broad chest. The elven healer sighed, lowering defences set about his own fea and bracing for the onslaught he knew would come.

A strong arm caught him firmly about the waist as Elrond stumbled and almost fell. Through searing waves of ice-cold pain he willingly accepted Elrohir’s support, unaware until then that his son had joined them. Elrond pushed the pain out on an exhale and hastily reassembled his inner walls. When he opened his eyes once more he was looking into Aragorn’s anxious features.

“Can you help him?” For the first time in many a year the man sounded a little uncertain of his foster father’s abilities. 

Elrond cleared his throat as he straightened and Elrohir realised him, leaving one hand resting upon the small of his father’s back to let him know that help was there if needed. The healer was considering his reply when another spoke, drawing his attention downward.

“Strider said as you could. He said you were Mr Frodo’s only hope.” Tears were leaving clean tracks through the grime on the small face looking up at him and there was a catch in the voice. 

The lore master in Elrond knew that hobbits had a knack for getting themselves overlooked and, despite the gravity of the situation, he felt a small bubble of amusement as he pictured Arwen’s confusion when she discovered she shepherded two hobbits instead of three. He allowed his amusement to push what he hoped was a reassuring smile to his lips. 

“I will use all my skills to help him.” Dropping a hand to rest upon the perrian’s shoulder, Elrond used that touch to send hope and strength into the small frame.

Aragorn’s voice came at his right ear. “Trust him, Sam. If anyone can help Frodo it will be Master Elrond.” The rasping edge of the man’s voice spoke of weariness and deprivation and Elrond took a moment to study the face of the son of his heart, noting new lines about the clear grey eyes.

“You are weary, Aragorn. Hand Master Frodo over to your brother. Then you and Sam can take some rest.”

Although Frodo was transferred to Elrohir’s willing arms without hesitation, the ranger chieftain shook his head. “Thank you, My Lord. But I will not go to my rest at once. I understand from Glorfindel that another of my mortal kin has recently arrived with news. With your permission I will seek him out before I find my bed.”

With a small nod Elrond allowed the Heir of Isildur to return to his duty. There were times when the father in Elrond regretted having helped to raise him with such a strong sense of duty for, with each passing decade Aragorn, son of Arathorn, bowed lower beneath its weight. For a few moments more he watched his foster son’s retreating back and then Elrond turned to follow Elrohir into the warmth of the candle-lit porch. 

He was resolved to turn Sam over to another of his household once indoors, but Sam stood firm and would not be parted from his master. Eventually Elrond capitulated, knowing that fatigue would force Frodo’s guardian to rest soon enough, whether he willed it or not.

Within minutes they were all crossing the threshold of the chamber allocated for Frodo and Elrond paused to take in the scene. It was fortunate that one of Imladris’ larger guest rooms had been chosen, for with his arrival it was beginning to grow a little crowded.

Besides Elrond, Elrohir and Sam, Mithrandir and Bilbo were present. Although he had requested the ancient hobbit’s presence Elrond was not certain whether he had made the right decision. Would the pain of seeing his nephew’s treatment be greater than the stress of knowing he was in pain, and being prevented from providing what comfort he could? But then, even in his unconscious state, Frodo may detect and take comfort from his uncle’s presence and so Bilbo would remain. Frodo needed all the help they could give him. Mithrandir, Elrond would need for strength and council. Having felt something of Frodo’s anguish Elrond was uncertain that his own strength would be sufficient. 

A small cry of recognition from his side snagged him from his musings. “Gandalf! Mr Bilbo!” Sam almost threw himself at Bilbo . . . all thought of his position as servant forgotten in the need to find solace in the arms of someone familiar.

For his part, Bilbo accepted him willingly. His embrace had not the strength it once held but was none the less fervent. “Sam, my lad. How I’ve missed your good hobbit sense!”

Sam took comfort there for a while, then straightened his shoulders and drew back, stepping aside to stand a little sheepishly before the tall wizard. “I’m sorry, Mr Gandalf, sir. I tried to look after him, like you said, but them wraiths were too strong.” Sam’s tears began to flow anew and he sniffled loudly.

Elrond was unsure what Sam had expected but it was clear from his expression of astonishment that it was not for Mithrandir to kneel down and gather him into a gentle embrace. “It’s alright, Sam. My only charge to you was to stay at his side and that you have done. Lord Elrond will help him now.” He pushed Sam gently away, smiling into the hazel eyes, his large hands gently squeezing the gardener’s shoulders. He handed over a surprisingly clean hanky. “And you and I will assist were we can.”

His gruff and friendly tone seemed to soothe Sam, although Elrond suspected that the cessation of the hobbit’s tears was due to more than words. Gandalf the wizard had a sometimes-disconcerting way of slipping into another’s thoughts, undetected. With an understanding tip of his head to Elrond, Mithrandir led Sam and Bilbo to a corner of the room, where Elrond had instructed the placement of a small chaise. “Let us sit here, out of the way, while Lord Elrond assesses the damage to our poor Frodo.”

Elrond allowed himself a small sigh of relief as they settled down. The hobbit’s agitation was intruding upon his calm and he would need all his wits and skill about him in the coming hours.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

With sad inevitability Elrond’s gaze was drawn to the bed, where Elrohir was tenderly unwrapping the ailing perrian. There was a pained whimper as the younger elf lifted him to slide away the soiled wrappings but he was being as gentle as possible and Elrond waited patiently for Frodo to be settled on the silk coverlet. Released from his swaddling of blankets and cloaks Frodo began to stir restlessly, as though trying to crawl away from his agony, although his eyelids remained firmly sealed against the conscious world. His child sized form seemed lost in the vast expanse of the elven-sized bed as Elrond settled at his side, upon the edge of the mattress.

Unwilling as yet to lower his defences the elven healer began to assess his charge with eye and hand. Frodo’s shallow and ragged breathing told of pain in his chest, the blue tinge of his slightly parted lips testament to a difficulty absorbing air into his body. Bruised circles about his eyes stood sharp contrast against his otherwise alabaster pale skin and when Elrond pealed back a delicately veined lid he found a huge black iris only thinly rimmed with deep blue. 

The fine sheen of perspiration on Frodo’s face bellied the icy chill that Elrond found in his flesh, particularly in his left hand. Knowing that a wound had been dealt to the left shoulder the healer ran his hands from finger tip to neck, then chased the chill he felt across the left side of the struggling ribcage. A quick examination of the entire body showed no further problems, other than those caused by short rations, and so he returned to the dark stained rent in maroon wool, that told of attack with a blade so sharp it could almost have been one of Elrond’s own surgical knives. Not a thread had been snagged by its passing . . . the clean slicing suggesting that this was a blade newly forged and never used before in battle.

Deft fingers unfastened Frodo’s weskit and Elrond pealed back the linen shirt beneath, injury written in the dark rust of old blood through the creamy warp and weft of its fabric. Finely arched brows drew down as he surveyed the wound, exposed at last to keen gaze. There was no sign of anything amiss, however. No heated angry flesh met his gaze, only a mark barely paler than the surrounding skin, mirroring precisely that which pierced the layers of clothing bunched in Elrond’s fingers. There was no reason here for Frodo’s pain, even so, as Elrond feathered a fingertip across the mark the young hobbit screamed, back arching in anguish. The healer pulled back instantly, his hand moving to Frodo’s brow to salve gentle compassion on the raw pain, and was relieved when his charge began to settle into his previous fretful but quiet state.

Frodo’s cry drew Sam to his master’s side at once and so it was that Elrond found him at his left hand. Although he said nothing, Sam took Frodo’s hand and his displeasure at Elrond’s exacerbation of his friend’s pain bristled against the elf’s fea. Rather than push him away, the healer decided Sam would be put to better use helping. Indeed Frodo seemed to calm a little further at his familiar touch.

“Sam. Perhaps you could undress your master so that we can put him in that bath?” He nodded toward the fireplace where a small, intricately carved wooden tub steamed. “The hot water will help to warm him and I am certain he will gain some comfort in being cleansed of the grime of travel.”  
Sam glanced guiltily at the dirt on his own hands for only a moment, before clambering up onto the high bed and tenderly completing the job of divesting Frodo of his clothing.

Certain that he could safely leave Sam to his assigned task, Elrond turned to sorting through the crystal vials nested in a delicately wrought silver stand on the bedside table. Selecting two he glided to the tub. The perfumed oils would begin the job of healing; lavender to calm and aid sleep and sandalwood to ease Frodo’s breathing. Unstopping each Elrond counted several careful drops into the water. Aware that Bilbo understood some of the elven tongues, he whispered his charm in an ancient and almost forgotten tongue of his childhood years. As his palm passed over the water the room was flooded with the scent of summer gardens and autumn woodland and calm settled in every heart. 

As though to mock that calm however, a wavering cry issued from Frodo’s lips. Elrond spun in time to see Elrohir step back in alarm, in the process of bundling up the discarded clothes to remove them for laundering. Despite Sam’s restraining hands Frodo was thrashing with more strength then should have been possible with his wasted frame and Elrond guessed the problem immediately . . . although he had hoped that matters had not advanced so far. Rescuing the clothing from his son, he returned it to Frodo’s side, watching sadly as one small hand reached out to grasp the jacket. Then Frodo stilled.

Glancing across the bed, Elrond raised one brow at the wizard, still seated in the corner of the room. Mithrandir only sighed and shook his head. That The Ring should have taken so strong a hold upon Frodo’s fea in such a short space of time did not bode well for any future decisions regarding its disposition.

Elrohir was looking from father to hobbit and back again in total bewilderment and Elrond smiled at him reassuringly. “Go to my chamber and look in the top drawer of the dresser. Within a small wooden box there you will find a silver chain. Please bring it to me.”

Not daring to separate hobbit and clothing Elrond tucked a soft woollen blanket about both while he waited for Elrohir’s return. “It will be well, Sam.” Elrond smiled but Sam seemed unconvinced, keeping one protective hand upon Frodo’s chest. The elf could hardly blame him. The hobbit had expected magical elven healing and seen only more pain.

For several more minutes the only sound within the room was Frodo’s laboured breathing, the crack and settle of the fire on the hearth, and Elrond used the time to lay towels to warm before the dancing flames. Elrohir returned swiftly, although Elrond suspected it felt like an age to Sam and Bilbo. Time was considered by mortals to be constant and yet elves knew otherwise, the minutes stretching or condensing treacherously when least wanted. A fine silver chain dripped from Elrohir’s fingers.

“Sam. I believe that if you search Frodo’s jacket pocket, there beneath his hand, you will find The Ring. Slip it upon this chain and place it about your master’s neck.” As Sam moved to comply Elrond warned, “Touch it as little as possible.” Soon the chain and its burden were hung about Frodo’s neck and Elrond signalled to his son that it was safe to remove the clothing. It was with a heavy sigh of relief that Elrohir fled the room.

A soft, seductive melody teased at the edge of Elrond’s inner hearing drawing his gaze to the pale chest of his charge. The golden tones of The Ring seemed to gather all light in the room, multiplying and returning it in a warm, fire-spun glow, just as it had thousands of years before. It seemed to suck all power to it and Elrond was distantly aware of his hand inching forward, Vilya pulsing deep blue upon his finger.

He had expected soft words and terrible bargains from The Ring but it whispered nothing. Even so, it was such a terrible thing for an innocent to hold. It would surely be a mercy to take The Ring from such a frail creature as this? The healer’s compassionate nature yearned to release Frodo from such a terrible burden. 

“Elrond.” Mithrandir’s voice sliced through the melody and, with a start, Elrond snatched back his hand. Silence reigned as the high elven lord stared at the hand that had seemed to move without his permission. Then Frodo stirred and the healer shut out all else but his charge’s need. The Ring had almost snared him but now he felt he had its measure and, shaking himself inwardly, he pushed up his sleeves and returned to his work.

Strong arms gathered Frodo up carefully enough to avoid jostling the injured shoulder and Elrond carried him to the fireplace, lowering him slowly into the warmth of the tub. His incantation had enhanced the natural action of the oils and within minutes Frodo’s frame began to relax, the rasp of his breathing fading as his head lolled back against the towel-padded rim of the tub. Sam had trailed expectantly at his heel and Elrond handed him soap and cloth to help wash away the grime of his master’s journey. At least Sam’s hands would be cleaner by the time they finished, Elrond noted with some inner amusement.

His carers missed not one inch of Frodo’s anatomy, even his hair was soaped and rinsed. When finished Elrond allowed Frodo to rest a little longer in the warmth, before spreading a thick towel upon the rug and lifting him onto it. He and Sam dried him gently and dressed him in a slightly over-sized shirt, before finally putting him to bed, between feather mattress and down filled quilts. Although Frodo was warmer to the touch than before it did not escape the healer’s notice that his left arm and side were as cold as ever.

Drawing up a chair at Frodo’s right and signalling for Sam to sit, Elrond settled lightly upon the edge of the mattress at Frodo’s left, taking the small, chilled fingers in his. The very air seemed to still as the healer shut his eyes to all those he could sense focussed upon him.

Pulling in a steadying breath the he began to dismantle his defences. Elrond’s experience in the courtyard had prepared him, so he moved more cautiously this time. Layer by layer he unveiled his fea and tried to hold at bay the agony that flowed from Frodo’s. He had planned to capture the pain and lock it away but the flow was not consistent. A sudden wave of searing intensity battered him, threatening to overwhelm. He managed to turn it aside, only to be buffeted from another direction. It was not long before Elrond realised that he could not continue, mind and body screaming with the ice white agony of it.

Dragging himself back into the physical world Elrond found that he was propped, gasping against Mithrandir’s shoulder. Closing his eyes once more he concentrated upon slowing his heart and breathing, distantly aware that Sam was soothing Frodo. After several breaths the healer straightened his shoulders and Mithrandir drew back, content that his friend had regained some measure of control.

Frodo tossed restlessly and Sam held his hand between both of his, while Bilbo had been ceded Sam’s chair and now stroked his nephew’s face, shushing him softly. Elrond watched, aware that their familiar and loving touch would do more to calm Frodo than all the power of the Eldar. In confirmation of his thought the small body stilled, his breathing growing steadier. It was a wonder to Elrond that Frodo had survived so long beneath such an onslaught as he had just experienced. It seemed this people’s size belied their strength.

Sam’s hot gaze speared the elven lord with its sharp intensity. “What are you doing to him? Strider said as how you could help, but you’re just hurting him more.” It was likely that he would have said more but Bilbo’s fingers brushed his arm in mild censure and Sam bit his lip.

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry, Sam. I know this looks cruel, but you must understand that the weapons of the enemy are many and varied and even I must test the way.”

Sam swallowed, his eyes softening as he recognised fatigue in the elven lord’s voice. “Will you be able to cure him?”

Elrond tried on a weak smile, all too aware that it did not sit comfortably upon his face. “I have not given up yet.”

Gandalf’s gruff voice broke the tension. “Well. I shall need a good pipe before I watch you try that again.”

Elrond chuckled softly, while a part of his mind fled to cower in a corner at the very prospect of having to “try that again”. “And I will need a little time to consider what I have learned.”

“But what about Mr Frodo. He’s so sick,” came Sam’s forlorn voice.

Reaching across the prone figure, Elrond touched his hand. “I will not deny that your master is in much pain and it grieves me too, to see him thus. But the work we have done this night will hold him for a little while and, to be truthful, I do not know at present how best to proceed.”

Trying to pull his mind away from the idea of stepping into that nightmare once more, Elrond looked more closely at Sam. He was trembling with fatigue, an occasional tear still rolling down his face, although Elrond suspected that Sam himself was unaware of it. There were bruised circles beneath his eyes and he was in desperate need of a bath, food and rest. It was doubtful that Elrond would be able to persuade him to take any of these yet, if he was to continue to be of any use to Frodo, persuade him he must.

Bilbo was still stroking Frodo’s brow. With rapidly advancing age he was not as strong as once he was but at least he was rested. At the moment he was better able to sit with his nephew than Sam who, Elrond suspected, was upon the verge of collapse.

Elrond stood, making a show of stretching out non-existent kinks in his long back as he rounded the bed to stand behind the diminutive gardener. The young hobbit’s eyes followed until he was craning his neck to look up. Elrond let his eyes slip to Frodo’s face as he laid a gentle hand upon Sam’s shoulder and, as he hoped it would, Sam’s head turned to follow the direction of his gaze.

“He will endure until the morning, Sam. Why not sleep for a little while?” With those words he reached out with his fea, nudging just a little, and with a soft exhale Sam slumped quietly into Elrond’s waiting arms.

“I will take him to his bed,” Mithrandir offered, with not a twitch of a bushy eyebrow, as he collected the limp form of the now deeply slumbering gardener. Bilbo smiled fondly at Sam before lifting his nephew’s hand to cradle it against his aged, damp cheek.

Elrond left them thus as he stepped out onto the balcony to find what solace he could in the stars.

“Sweet Lady Este, help us.”


	3. Chapter 3

Elrond could hear laboured breathing even before he entered the room. He had held a hope that with the rising of the sun Frodo’s condition would improve but there appeared to be no such change for the better.  Elrond himself had slept for only a couple of hours before bathing and changing his clothes.  Then he felt compelled to return to his charge, even though he knew the wizard would have sent for him had Frodo deteriorated too far.

 

The Master of Rivendell felt the heat of Sam’s ire sear him as soon as he stepped through the door. Despite himself, Sam did look much better.  He had bathed and donned freshly laundered clothes and his eyes were bright and clear.

 

“Good morrow, Master Samwise.” Elrond asked formally.  “Did you sleep well?”

Sam’s face flushed, hazel eyes flashing dangerously. “You made me sleep.  Gandalf said as I shouldn’t leave Mr Frodo and you made me sleep,” he accused.

 

It was clear Sam was a doughty protector and Elrond could only admire the strength of this innocent soul. “You would have fallen asleep in spite of yourself within a few hours.  I merely helped you along.  Gandalf himself carried you to your bed and Bilbo and I remained with your master.  Frodo was well cared for and you will be of much more use to Frodo now that you have rested,” he chided gently.

 

Nonetheless, when the elven lord moved to the bedside he took care to take the opposite side to Sam, who still regarded him with frowning suspicion. Frodo was too pale, hand and shoulder icy to the touch and perspiration bedewing his brow.  He muttered fretfully about a crawling arm and green light.  Having snatched an hour to talk to them, Elrond had heard enough of the tale from Frodo’s cousins to know the source of that particular nightmare.

 

Wringing out a soft cloth in peppermint scented water Elrond blotted his charges’ face, smoothing back the damp curls on his forehead.   At the same time he reached into the borders of the hobbit’s mind in an attempt to bring calm.  Both efforts had limited affect on Frodo and only presaged a headache for Elrond.

 

When tending his charge brought no inspiration on how to proceed Elrond let his gaze drift about the room. For the first time he realised that Bilbo and Mithrandir were absent, although Elrohir sat in a chair by the hearth.  Unwilling to re-enter Frodo’s painful inner world without Gandalf’s presence he considered other ways to ease his charges wondering mind.

 

Perusal of the bedside table yielded a small wooden box, which he took to his son. Elrohir was watching a small kettle and listened intently to his father’s instruction before accepting the box. 

 

Gliding back to the bedside Elrond’s gaze returned to Frodo’s manservant. Sam’s eyes were fixed upon his master’s chest as it rose and fell unevenly and as Elrond studied them he grew aware of something.  That Sam was devoted to his master was obvious but Elrond could almost see invisible threads of fate that bound their fea’s together.  They were one being, in some deep way: each incomplete without the other.

 

Elrohir drew him from reverie as he brought a child’s spouted cup to his father.

 

“Did you sweeten it with honey, as I instructed?” his teacher murmured.

 

“Yes, Ada.”

 

Elrond squeezed his son’s shoulder in encouragement. He had but newly expressed an interest in his father’s healing skills and was a little uncertain, still.  For his part, Elrond was relieved to see at least one of his sons turning from the vengeful fighting that had marred the twins’ hearts since their mother’s injury at the hand of orcs.

 

Handing the cup off to Sam, Elrond lowered himself carefully onto the bed at Frodo’s head. “I am going to lift your master a little, to make it easier for him to swallow, and I want you to feed him small sips of this tea.”

 

Sam sniffed the cup suspiciously.

 

“It is only chamomile, Sam. It will help him to rest more easily.”  Elrond found it difficult to hide the amusement in his voice and he neglected to add that Elrohir had enhanced the tea’s action with a little of his own life force.

 

Slipping his arm beneath the frail shoulders, Elrond raised Frodo to lean against him, ensuring that the cold left side rested against the warmth of his chest. Frodo made not a whimper at the movement and Sam’s gaze softened as he tilted the cup and trickled a few drops of the warm tea between slightly parted lips.  Ready to assist Frodo in swallowing if necessary, Elrond was relived to see the small throat bob reflexively.

 

It took some time and the tea was almost cold by the time they finished, but Frodo manage to swallow all of it before being eased gently back into his pillows.

 

By the time Mithrandir returned Frodo was sleeping peacefully and Elrond had moved to the casement, watching raindrops track down the windowpanes. Elrohir remained by the fire, unwilling to intrude upon his father’s reverie, but the wizard had no such qualms.  With a smile of greeting to Sam, Gandalf came to stand at Elrond’s side.

 

His voice was low, although it was likely that Sam still heard. “Will you try again today?”

 

Elrond continued to gaze out of the window although it was clear that he was not studying the dark rain clouds beyond.

 

“If we do not help him soon he will fade into the shadow realm and be lost to us,” Mithrandir coaxed quietly when there was no immediate response.

 

Elrond’s reply was barely more than a whisper, intended only for his friend’s ears. “I am well aware of the consequences of inaction.”  Finely arched brows drew down.  “And yet something is very wrong here.  I have treated the wounds of morgul blades before but none have caused a reaction such as this.”

 

Gandalf continued to press, one gnarled hand coming to rest upon Elrond’s arm in mild entreaty. “I sense it too, nor can I tell what is amiss.”  He let slip a glimpse of the legendary wizard’s impatience.  “Yet I fear we do not have the luxury of time.  If Frodo falls under the enemy’s power it is possible that all our long years of waiting will have been for nought.  And he is fading quickly now.”

 

Elrond closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “You are correct, as usual, my friend,” he sighed, features taking on a fresh resolve as he turned back to his charge.  Mithrandir followed, standing behind the healer as he settled upon the bedside once more and took up Frodo’s hand.

 

The Lord of Imladris tried several times throughout that rain washed day to slip past the layers of Frodo’s agony and touch the source. Each time he was beaten back by the ice cold waves of pain and had to withdraw.  On the final occasion he came to his senses to find himself curled on the floor, head pillowed in his son’s lap.  He felt nauseous, light headed and more than slightly embarrassed, as he allowed Elrohir to help him to a chair.  Shocked to feel his body trembling with reaction he accepted the warm tea Bilbo handed him and sipped it slowly.  He had not even noticed the arrival of Frodo’s uncle.

 

He was relieved to see Mithrandir sitting with Sam and Frodo but their charge seemed to have lost what little ground they had fought so hard to gain. Now, as the sun set, his ragged breathing was punctuated once more with disjointed mutterings.  When he had drawn together his scattered wits Elrond rejoined them, his face grim.

 

If the day had seemed long to the little group sitting vigil in the sick room, the night seemed interminable. Two bright spots of colour blossomed on Frodo’s pale cheeks and his restlessness increased as he began to toss, weakly pushing at the covers.  More doses of chamomile and peppermint tea helped to calm him but little and only Elrond’s healing touch seemed to bring any relief.  It was clear to all that Frodo could not continue for much longer in this way.  The hobbit was wandering in some nightmare world that, try as he may, Elrond could not infiltrate.

 

For his part Sam would not be tricked into leaving his master’s side again, wringing out cold compresses for his head and warm ones for his shoulder. His cousins were not far distant either, although they were rarely permitted within the confines of the sick room.  Pippin and Merry could often be found curled upon the floor outside the door, as though they felt their very proximity would offer strength. 

 

But all their vigilance could not help Frodo. He began to alternate between shuddering chills and searing fever, his body bathed in perspiration.  His carers could only wrap him in down-filled quilts when he grew too cold and sponge him down and change bedding when the fever climbed.   Even the mighty elven lord did not consider himself exempt from this simple care, for compassion seemed all he had to offer at present.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The dawn chorus heralded Aragorn’s arrival in Frodo’s chamber. This velvet clad man almost unrecognisable as the ragged and unkempt wonderer that had shuffled wearily up to Elrond’s porch but a few hours before. 

Offering a small tilt of his head to his foster brother, Aragorn moved first to the bed, where he studied Frodo with sorrowful eyes for several moments. Then, patting Sam on the shoulder in passing, he joined Elrond on the balcony. The rains had abated and, although clouds hung heavy upon the horizon, in the garden below ribbons of mist were being coaxed skyward by a pale sun.

“Good morrow, My Lord.”

His foster father half turned, mind clearly pre-occupied. “Good morrow Est . . . Aragorn.” 

Inwardly berating himself for such a slip Elrond turned more fully to view the Chieftain of the Dunadan. Almost, Elrond could see again the young Estel who had graced his hall many years ago, but the blink of an eye to elven memory. His hair was combed, his square chin scraped clean of stubble and he wore a suit of dark green velvet, delicately chased with gold bullion work at hem and throat . . . the work of Arwen. After centuries Elrond could recognise the loving work of her nimble fingers. 

But a bath and clean clothing could not hide the silver that had begun to thread the sable fall of hair and the lines of care that marred Aragorn’s high brow. Once again Elrond regretted the decision that resulted in Arwen having to watch her beloved grow old before her eyes. Yet, in Estel’s clear grey gaze, Elrond felt a power held close in the potential High King that he had not felt for many generations of that noble house. His heart told him that this would be the last chance for the line of Elros to regain the throne. If Aragorn failed, neither he nor his foster father would wish to see Arwen trapped in a marriage that would entail her remaining in a world held in dominion to the Dark Lord.

For his part, Aragorn’s gaze swept Elrond’s face with some concern. Even elves grow tired, and fatigue was writ clear to read for one who had seen that strong face laugh and cry over more than eighty years. Knowing better than to comment on what he saw however, Aragorn simply held out a cloth-wrapped package.

With only a questioning quirk of his brows, Elrond accepted the parcel silently and laid it carefully upon the wide stone balustrade. Guessing what was contained within he peeled back the neatly folded wrappings gingerly, long fingers fastidiously avoiding the contents. As he suspected he would, he revealed a Morgul knife, or at least the hilt of one.

Elrond’s fea recoiled from the charnel odour exuded, although his nose detected nothing. Silvered eyes followed the swirling pattern of vile spells graven there, whilst his fea carefully avoided becoming ensnared by them. Weary that he was, he was pleased that Aragorn had thought to partially neutralise it already. Even so, the examination set his head throbbing.

“The blade dissolved as soon as it was touched by the sun’s rays,” Aragorn volunteered softly.

Elrond started when Mithrandir spoke at his left shoulder. “Is this the knife that struck Frodo?” Either the wizard had learned to step more silently than an elf (a thing highly unlikely in the huge boots he habitually wore) or Elrond needed more rest.

Aragorn merely nodded and Mithrandir leaned forward for a closer look. Bushy brows drew low in concentration and Elrond recognised that piercing look in the Maia’s eyes. When Gandalf spoke again the warm, gruff tones of his everyday voice were replaced with clear, clipped tones, his grey eyes narrowed. “Did you see the blade before it dissolved? Can you remember anything unusual about it?”

The keenness of that wit would have cowed a lesser mortal but, having been raised amongst people almost as daunting; Estel had lost some of the awe that Gandalf’s expression usually engendered in mortals. Instead, his eyes grew distant as he cast back in his mind. “The blade was long and had a strange cold gleam to it, like oil trapped in ice. One side was notched, although it looked otherwise unused and the point was broken off.” He shook his head apologetically. “I glimpsed it for only a moment in the thin dawn light.”

Mithrandir pursed his lips, bushy brows drawn so low in consideration that his eyes were lost in shadow. “The point was broken, you say? Did you see it on the floor anywhere?”

“No. I assumed it was either old damage or had simply dissolved before I could find it.” His frown and hesitant reply indicated that he had no idea where Gandalf’s questioning would lead.

Mithrandir turned back to search Elrond’s face, noting only fatigue in the healer’s features. “I think I may have discovered our problem.”

Elrond blinked, fingers moving automatically to massage the bridge of his nose as he tried to force his mind to focus. “I am not at my best this morning, friend. You will have to explain further,” he sighed, turning to lean back against the low parapet.

Gandalf gave no indication of impatience at the vagueness of his audience. “I believe the knife was notched deliberately so that the point would break off in the wound and remain in the body.”

Elrond straightened, but before he could comment Aragorn spoke. “To what purpose?”

Now wide-awake it was Elrond who replied. “Of course. Once the point had been broken off it could be spelled to work its way to the victim’s heart. There it would subdue him, turning him into a wraith like the blade’s wielder. The Nine need only then wait for Frodo to bring the Ring to them. Fortunately for us, they under estimated the strength of hobbits. It is clear they did not expect him to reach Imladris.”

“It is well that he fought the Wraith King to the end or he would be dead and the Ring lost,” Aragorn stated. 

“Aye. I think the notched blade was but a second line of attack in case they could not take the Ring, and its bearer, cleanly.” Elrond sighed. “Our problem will be reaching the shard. By now it will be buried deep.”

Gandalf laid a concerned hand upon the healer’s velvet clad shoulder. “You are too worn to do anything more at present. Rest for a while and then you and I will try again, together.”

The Lord of Imladris had lived long enough to learn to heed the council of the wise when it was offered. “I will retire for a little while, but please send for me if there is any change in Frodo’s condition. In truth, we should not delay but I am too weary to make any effective attempt at present.”

Gandalf’s gruff voice bathed him in kindness. “Have no fear. I shall watch him closely.”

The three returned to the sick room and Sam looked up, his features hopeful until he saw their faces. Aragorn made to leave first but of a sudden Elrond stayed him. “You have used Athelas to treat him before?”

“Yes. But it eased his pain for only a short while. Its effects against this injury seem to be limited,” Aragorn replied ruefully.

“At this point any relief will be useful. It may also serve to relieve his fever and strengthen his breathing.”

Elrohir had heard his father’s words and was already selecting a small bundle of slender green leaves from a bowl on the table. He was about to hand them to Elrond but the healer shook his head, pushing them towards Aragorn. “You do it. He has grown used to the touch of your fea.”

Taking three tender leaves, Aragorn murmured a soft incantation then breathed upon them, before crushing and scattering the Athelas upon the surface of a large bowl of steaming water that Gandalf held ready. A clean, wholesome scent stole through the room, lifting the spirits of all present.

Elrohir helped his father to remove Frodo’s nightshirt then Aragorn wrung out a cloth in the basin and began to lave the chilled left side and arm. It was with some relief that Elrond noted the slightly deeper breaths that lifted Frodo’s small chest: the hectic colour of his cheeks begin to fade. After a few minutes of this treatment Sam helped them to dry his master and redress him, before tucking Frodo warmly once more beneath the down-filled quilts.

By now the elven healer was bone weary but he decided on one last course of action before departing for his own bed. He laid a gentle hand upon Frodo’s brow and reached down within himself. Gathering much of his remaining strength the elf lord wove it with power offered by the timeless valley of Imladris herself and fed it steadily into the frail form beneath his fingers.

Sam sighed with relief as he felt his friend’s fingers unclench within his and watched in awe as some of the deeply etched lines of pain bracketing Frodo’s lips faded.

When Elrond opened his eyes once more they confirmed what his fea had already known. Frodo was now resting peacefully and would hopefully be able to fight on for the few hours needed for Elrond to replenish his own strength.

He could not remember when he had been so weary and was grateful for Elrohir’s supporting arm to guide him to his chamber, for he was not certain he would have reached it otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The Lord of Imladris awoke in his bed with scant memory of how he had arrived there. Sunlight filtered softly through gauzy curtains, warming his cheek, and for a moment longer he enjoyed the peace; listening, as he had for thousands of years, to the falls tumble into the valley below the house. 

Feeling more able to face the day’s trials, he arose and busied himself with his toilet. Someone had thoughtfully laid out fresh linens and Arwen’s hand was recognised in the placement of a bowl of roses on the table next to a snowy cloth, covering food and drink. Nibbling at some bread and honey and sipping a glass of apple juice, Elrond tied back his dark hair simply and finished dressing. He took a few more minutes to collect himself before returning to the fray.

In Frodo’s room the comforting scent of Athelas still lingered. Mithrandir had taken up vigil opposite Sam, who still held his master’s hand as though to anchor him to this world. Elrond doubted that Frodo’s companion had taken any time to eat or sleep but he seemed steady enough so the healer decided not to push him into doing so again. Without further use of more esoteric elven persuasions Elrond doubted he could part the gardener from Frodo anyway, and Sam was now alert to such tactics.

Gandalf was obviously listening intently to Frodo’s mutterings. The fever had not left completely, but Frodo did not look as flushed as he had during the long night. Bilbo’s corner was empty and Elrohir was not present.

As though sensing Elrond’s unspoken question Mithrandir spoke. “Your son is walking Bilbo to his room. He will return shortly.” He turned his discerning gaze to the elven healer. “You are more rested. I don’t think I have ever seen you look so weary as you did this morning.”

Elrond allowed himself a tight smile. “It has been some time.” 

Gandalf returned the smile more openly, eyes sparkling, and pulled back his chair to allow Elrond closer access to their charge. It was not often that the son of Earendil admitted weakness.

Slipping closer, the healer bent to thumb up one bruised eyelid then touch fingers to Frodo’s neck where the pulse raced, sometimes stumbling over itself. The skin beneath his touch was hot and dry and Frodo’s breath wheezed. Elrond pinched up a fold of skin on the back of Frodo’s hand and watched closely as it sank back far too slowly. The little one had not been given enough to drink. 

Once more, as though he had spoken aloud, Mithrandir replied. “We tried to get him to drink something but I fear we do not have your touch. He seemed to want to fight us.”

Elrond shook his head. “He is stubborn.” Sam bridled, then subsided as the healer continued . . . “And yet it is perhaps that very stubbornness which has allowed him to resist the evil of the wound for so long.” Selecting a box from the table he stepped over to the hearth, where he brewed a cup of camomile tea and stirred in a liberal helping of honey.

Lifting his restless charge to lean against his chest, Elrond swaddled him tightly in a blanket to hold him still. Then, as before, Sam coaxed his friend into taking small sips of the soothing tea.

“Will you try again to reach him today?” asked Mithrandir as they worked.

“Yes. But this time I must ask for your more direct aid, my friend. Will you gift us both with some of your strength?”

“You know you need only ask. I will give whatever is in my power.” Gandalf dragged his chair closer as Elrond settled himself upon the bed and drew Frodo into his lap. 

Sam hovered close by . . . hand clenching and unclenching, obviously desperate to help but uncertain what to do. Elrond took a moment to smile at him. “Perhaps you could take Frodo’s wrist again and measure the pulse of his blood there. Let Elrohir know if it grows any more erratic.” Sam nodded gravely, placing his fingers lightly where Elrond indicated, upon the line where sun bronzed hand met porcelain wrist.

Returning, Elrohir slid some pillows behind his father’s back as Elrond leaned against the intricately carved headboard. Taking several deep slow breaths to centre himself, Elrond placed one hand upon Frodo’s brow and offered the other to his friend. Gandalf accepted it, with a soft smile of encouragement to Sam before he too closed his eyes, shutting out any further distractions from the world around them.

Once more Elrond began to lower his defences. Each time a particularly strong wave of pain assailed him he felt the Maia’s power helping him to ensnare and lay it aside. For what seemed an eternity the two laboured in partnership, taking each pain flecked wave of ice water and locking it way, searching desperately for the source. The healer was aware of little else as he stumbled through Frodo’s nightmare, pursued by formless shadows. Screams pierced his sensitive ears and at times Elrond was unable to determine whether they were screams of anguish or of chilling triumph.

Suddenly a new wave of agony sliced through him impaling his left shoulder and robbing him of breath. The grey fog he had been stumbling through grew brighter and brighter, until white light seared his eyes and fea with an intensity that he felt sure would obliterate him forever. With a hoarse cry Elrond fought to break free, throwing himself away from the anguish that threatened to bind him to Frodo and destroy them both. All at once he felt a strong, gnarled hand gripping his, pulling him back and away . . . 

Elrond came back to himself with a start. He was gasping for air, face clamped between Mithrandir's hands as the powerful wizard stared deep into Elrond's eyes calling his name. Elrond's fingers were clenched so tightly that the nails had cut bloody crescent into his palms and Elrohir was pinning his arms to his sides. The healer's throat felt raw, as though he had been screaming, and pain ricocheted around his head.

Finally drawing his focus in on the wizard’s concerned gaze, Elrond released the inner walls he had slammed into place and felt peace and strength flowing in, taking all that was offered to bolster his sanity. As Mithrandir let go his face Elrohir released his arms and Lord of Imladris allowed himself to sink back against a cushion and take, in both trembling hands, the cup that his son now offered. Even using two hands, for the first few sips Elrohir had to steady his grip. He was not surprised to find it was camomile tea and sipped it gratefully.

To his left he could hear Frodo’s whimpers and Sam’s voice trying to soothe him but Elrond found that he was quite willing to let others tend Frodo for a little while. When he had recovered sufficiently to look about him Elrond was surprised to find that he was sitting in the chair previously occupied by Mithrandir and that it was well into the afternoon. He had been completely unaware of the passage of time as he worked.

Frodo’s fever had finally broken, although Sam was still mopping his face. Elrond felt a twinge of guilt when he realised that Sam was wiping away the tears that squeezed from beneath Frodo’s eyelashes. Something snagged Elrond’s attention and, through the pounding of his head, he could not at first decide what was different about his charge. Then he saw it. Frodo’s flesh was quite literally fading, most particularly his left arm and hand.

The elven lord sought out Mithrandir’s face and received an almost imperceptible nod. This did not bode well, although Elrond was also aware of a soft glimmer of light still flowing through Frodo. He doubted that Sam had noticed yet but if the phenomenon progressed much further it would become obvious to even the untrained eye.

At least Elrohir seemed to have come into his own, helping Sam settle his master more comfortably and administering some ginger tea. Elrond was content to watch as he waited for the camomile tea to ease his own headache and soothe his jangled nerves. He had no doubt that his face was as white as Frodo’s and he had yet to master the shaking of his hands.

Thinking that some fresh air would help, Elrond arose and found Mithrandir at his elbow to help him unobtrusively to the balcony refuge. As the doors closed behind them Elrond turned to his friend. “You saw it?”

It had rained again and Mithrandir leaned against the balustrade, his eyes drinking in the clean, rain washed beauty of the garden below them. “He fades. If we do not take definitive action soon he will become like the nine . . . a wraith.”

Elrond was also leaning against the low stone wall. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a habit he decided he must break himself of, a clear signal to those who knew, that something was worrying him. He sighed, letting his hand fall to the damp stone, wincing as the small cuts in his palm made contact with the rough, weathered surface. His headache was showing little sign of diminishing.

He could not remember ever having felt so helpless as a healer. Having the experience of thousands of years, there were few ailments that he could not deal with, but Frodo’s illness was vexing him. Elrond found himself massaging the bridge of his nose once more and sighed as he dropped his hand and opened his eyes. Mithrandir was studying him.

“Why have you not used Vilya?”

Elrond had schooled himself long ago not to glance at the blue stoned ring on his left forefinger whenever the name was mentioned. One did not draw attention to a ring of power. The pitiful scene in the room behind them made that all too clear.

“I dare not.” The watery sun seemed to make his headache worse so he turned his back on it. The scene in the room beyond the window was a world away. Sam continued to hold his master’s hand and Elrohir was changing the compress on Frodo’s brow. At least Frodo seemed to have calmed a little under their ministrations.

Elrond glanced aside at the wizard, who had hitched himself up to sit upon the low balustrade beside him, seemingly oblivious to the long drop at their backs.

“The Dark Lord has long suspected that one of the three rings lay within this valley but I have ensured that he has no proof of it. When Gilgalad entrusted Vilya to me I was charged to keep it hidden and that I have done, all these long years. It is one of the reasons Imladris has been left in relative peace. I have never challenged him with it openly.”

In the room before them the door swung silently open and Bilbo entered, leaning upon a fine walking cane. Elrond thought he looked more unsteady than usual and worried that his nephew’s illness was taking too great a toll upon the now ancient hobbit. Elrohir motioned him to the chair recently vacated by Elrond but Bilbo declined, choosing instead his now customary corner. His host marvelled at the love such a simple act implied. Of course Bilbo would want to sit by his nephew. He probably wanted nothing more than to scoop Frodo up in his arms and hold him close, but he also did not want to be in the way of those tending him. So Bilbo settled himself out of the way, in the corner. Elrond could only guess at the guilt and pain Bilbo was feeling. It was he, after all, who had bequeathed the Ring to Frodo.

Mithrandir shook his head. “And how much longer do you think Vilya can remain hidden? The One Ring is on the move.” He waved towards the window.

Elrond bristled, the rich timbre of his voice growing intense. Too many depended upon his protection, for the main escape route to the West for his people now lay through Rivendell’s borders. “I dare not use Vilya so close to the One Ring. They will shine like a beacon fire to our enemy.”

Gandalf’s reply was a stern whisper. “At the very least, the Nine know The One Ring is here. They have been halted but they will not delay in reporting to their master. The time for hiding is past, Elrond. Now is the time for all who would oppose the darkness to stand forth in the light.”

Elrond’s hand twitched to rise to his face as he vainly willed his headache to leave. “Much good it did us last time.” He snapped back. Then he drew in a deep breath, noting the distant perfume of one of the last roses of the year. “We dare not reveal too much until we have decided how to proceed with The One.”

“And Frodo will have some say in its disposition. You know this,” Gandalf replied calmly.

“Then we had best return to the fray,” the healer replied, straightening his shoulders.

That afternoon Elrond and Mithrandir tried once more to enter Frodo’s nightmare and at least this time Elrond managed to retire with his dignity intact. 

His fever waning, Frodo began to look a little better to the untrained eye and his cousins were allowed to sit by him for a while. But Frodo’s stillness worried Elrond, for it seemed that his fea grew more distant with each passing hour. The fading of his left arm and side continued too, although Frodo’s companions did not appear to notice that yet.

Rewarding Elrohir’s earlier competence, his father left him to dose Frodo with the different teas needed to sustain him and when evening drew in they put their charge into a hot bath to try and warm him through the hours of darkness. Then they wrapped him close and placed thickly wrapped hot water bottles at his feet and left side. Even with this care Elrond had to sit with him through most of the night, cradling the small, chilled left hand in long elegant fingers and using that touch to feed some strength into the tiny, inwardly struggling form.

With the coming of dawn the master healer retired for a few hours but he could not sleep. He kept hearing his wise friend’s voice repeating, “Now is the time for all who would oppose the darkness to stand forth in the light.” Exhaustion finally claimed him as sunbeams began a stately process across his chamber floor.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Bilbo’s quiet murmur could be heard before Elrond opened the door. Sam was now on the balcony, eating an apple and drinking a glass of milk under Elrohir’s stern gaze and Elrond had to suppress a smile as he guessed that the young gardener was under orders to finish said food and drink before being allowed to return. The little gardener seemed to have more strength than any of the hobbits (except perhaps for Frodo Baggins) but Elrohir had obviously taken it upon himself to ensure that it stayed that way. Having been subjected to it upon at least one occasion, Elrond did not envy his son the hot glare of Sam’s gaze.

Bilbo had a pleasant speaking voice, even roughened by great age, and Elrond found himself listening as he moved to assess his charge. The ancient hobbit was relating an amusing tale about some family event that had taken place in the Shire when he, himself, was but a lad. The healer doubted that Frodo could understand the tale but the familiar sound of his uncle’s voice may serve to anchor him to this world.

Frodo’s pulse was steadier but too faint for Elrond’s liking. 

Mithrandir entered from the hall as Sam and Elrohir returned from the balcony and, with a final glare at the younger elf, Sam took up station at Bilbo’s shoulder. Elrohir slipped over to join his father and the wizard. “How is your headache, Adar?”

“Strangely enough it is much better.” Elrond stared pointedly at the wizard, “Despite my not getting much sleep.”

His friend responded only by raising both bushy eyebrows in an expression of mock innocence. For his part, Elrond’s smile let Gandalf know that the expression was unconvincing. 

Motioning for Gandalf and Elrohir to follow him to the fireplace Elrond leaned close. “I have decided to use Vilya.” The words dropped into a stunned pool of silence and Elrond felt somewhat pleased that he had managed to surprise the wily Maia. “Will you work with me again?”

Mithrandir nodded. “I believe you have made the correct decision.”

“I hope so, my counsellor, because once this path is taken there is no turning back. It will expose us to the enemy and my people have neither the numbers nor the strength of elder days. I do not dare to contemplate the result of Sauron gaining control of the Three.” Elrond took some comfort from Gandalf’s strong hand squeezing his shoulder. He turned to his son.

“I will need you to stand watch over both Mithrandir and myself, as well as Frodo. It will be a hard battle and any one of us may need your support. Do not attempt to join us in the fight, however. We need someone strong on the outside.”

“I will be there for you, Adar.” Elrohir swallowed hard and his father took his shoulders, searching his face. “I would not ask this of you if I did not trust that you were capable of it. I know that you will not fail us.”

The trainee healer’s shoulders straightened and he nodded. The three converged upon the bed as Bilbo was winding up his story, and he and Sam looked up expectantly.  
Elrond had too much respect for either hobbit to offer false hope. “This is the last push, Little Masters. If we do not succeed today there is no hope for Frodo.” He could not bring himself to tell them the whole truth, however.

If this attempt did not succeed they would lose Frodo and possibly all fair things in Middle earth. For if Frodo slipped into the shadow world it may prove impossible to stop him leaving with the One and even Vilya in his possession. And the only alternative to letting Frodo become a wraith did not bear discussion before his loving uncle and friend. Elrond glanced unwillingly at the dish, where a sharp knife lay hidden beneath an innocent seeming linen cloth. Pray Elbereth he would not have to use it.

He turned back to find two pairs of resolute eyes meeting his. They could not know of Elrond’s full plan but he admired their strength in the face of what they did know.

Elrond drew back the covers and lifted Frodo into the crook of his right arm, letting the tousled head loll against his chest. Then he sat upon the bed with his precious charge, leaning back against some pillows that Elrohir hastily arranged at the headboard. Mithrandir draped a downy quilt about both hobbit and elf. Frodo stirred a little then settled and the healer leaned his cheek against the soft brown curls and closed his eyes to the outer world. Mithrandir settled upon the edge of the bed and took Elrond’s left hand securely in his. Elrohir took up station between them, ready to at least break the physical bond if required.

Once more the room grew silent as battle was joined.

Pain. Eternal and unending pain. Jugfull upon jugfull of white-hot agony poured over him, sweeping through and lapping about him, threatening to drown all in fathomless depths of despair. But, buoyed by the additional power of Vilya and the support of the Istari, Elrond caught each drop and locked it away. As he drew closer to the source the pain grew more intense, whipping around him in a maelstrom. Somewhere at the centre of this whirling vortex the fea of Frodo Baggins was trapped.

“Frodo?”

Was that an answering whimper?

“Frodo Baggins?”

A small and broken voice whispered from the centre of the storm. “I’m here. Please . . . help me.”

Elrond took another step into the swirling agony and suddenly caught sight of a tiny figure, naked and cowed, curled upon his side. Frodo’s fea shone with a clear light, but for a sickly green stain in his left chest. Dark lines radiated from it, eating up the light and shading to grey Frodo’s left side and arm. Even as Elrond watched, the stain crept closer to the centre of the small chest, seeking out his heart with unerring purpose. Elrond reached out to touch the captive fea . . . and screamed. (He would never know whether the sound was uttered or only in his imagining.)

A huge red eye, wreathed in flame, burst into his mind, its searing heat a terrible counterpoint to the freezing agony of the Morgul blade. Elrond flung himself back and away even as he felt Mithrandir throwing a shield about him.

When he came back to himself Elrond was lying flat upon the bed. Frodo was still cradled in his arm, a slight weight upon his chest and his right arm was wrapped tightly about Elrond’s neck. Both were covered in blankets and a cool damp cloth was draped across Elrond’s throbbing brow.

Elrohir was bending over them anxiously, fingers to the pulse in his father’s neck. When he saw his eyes focus he straightened, relief plain upon his face. Elrond made a mental note to teach his son how to school his features to hide his mental state. It was not always wise to let your charge see how worried you were. That thought reminded Elrond of the little hobbit resting against his chest and he brought up his hand to touch Frodo’s face. It was cold, but he could feel the outward brush of air with each shallow breath.

Turning his head, the elven lord found Mithrandir standing behind a very concerned Bilbo and Sam. The wizard’s face was grim. “Let us hope that my actions were swift enough to cover your tracks.”

Elrond could only nod.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

For a long while they lay together, elf and hobbit, both too weary to do otherwise. Finally, Elrond struggled to sit up and Elrohir made to lift Frodo from him. But Frodo would have none of it and clung with all his waning strength to his would-be saviour’s neck, fingers firmly entangled in Elrond’s sable hair. With a rueful smile Elrohir gave up trying to and he and Mithrandir helped Elrond rise, with the diminutive soul still cradled in his arms.

Once he had his father comfortably settled amid a clutter of pillows and had swaddled both he and their charge in a quilt.

Bilbo was long used to the slow and steady pace of elvenkind but Sam was more impatient. He could see no sign of his master’s promised healing.

“What happened? Why isn’t he better? It’s been days now,” he demanded boldly, despite Bilbo’s gentle tugging at his sleeve. 

Mindful of his innocent audience Elrond told all he could, avoiding direct mention of the eye. By the time he concluded both hobbits were sniffling and Gandalf laid a comforting hand on each trembling back.

His gruff voice spread warmth over the chill thoughts of all. “Do not be too downhearted. As we suspected, a small piece of the knife blade has broken off and is working its way towards Frodo’s heart. Now that it has been found we just need to remove it.”

Two sets of hopeful eyes turned to Elrond for confirmation and he smiled in a way that he hoped looked confident. “I believe it can be destroyed. And if we succeed Frodo will begin to recover.” Mithrandir’s statement sounded so simple. “We just need to remove it.” In truth, Elrond was still uncertain how this was to be accomplished. A small part of him wanted to flee to the Havens and jump aboard the first boat, rather than confront that fiery orb again. Three thousand years ago, as herald to the High King, he had met its owner. Only chance had won the battle that day and even that victory had proved to be nothing more than a reprieve.

Marshalling his will, Elrond suggested that Frodo be given something to drink, so that he would be as strong as possible for their next attempt. And Elrohir insisted that his father take some refreshment too. Too tense to trust his digestion, Elrond settled for a weaker infusion of the camomile tea that they pressed upon Frodo. Wrinkling his nose at the offer of a cup for himself, Gandalf retired to the balcony and the comfort of his pipe.

The distraction of Mithrandir’s return, a few minutes later, allowed Elrond to slip the sharp blade from its hiding place to a deep fold of his robe. The shard was too close to Frodo’s heart now and this would be their last attempt to remove it. If they failed, Elrond would place the burden of their next action upon no other. Ensuring that the handle was within easy reach, he drew in several cleansing breaths and closed his eyes.

The pain was blunted by familiarity and their past efforts had established an effective, if tiring, method of dealing with it. Elrond began to tread the remembered path. Vilya was a powerful ally but he would use it only sparingly, determining to save it for the final push for fear of alerting that which lay so close. Instead he relied upon his own strength and that of Mithrandir for support. He could feel the pull of that other ring even now, from where it lay trapped between his own chest and that of its bearer. He forced himself not to heed its whisperings of failure and doubt and moved on through the vortex.

Frodo’s fea was as he had left it, the small trembling figure curled in upon itself. Elrond touched his trembling back and Frodo turned to look up at him through pain sharpened eyes of a blue that, in flesh, had only been glimpsed beneath dark lashes.

Ignoring the howling winds that buffeted them both, the healer coaxed Frodo to uncurl with gentle hands. There, almost touching the frantically beating heart, was the lurid green mark that was the Morgul shard. Sparing a moment to cup Frodo’s cheek in his palm, Elrond tried to offer a smile of comfort. Then, steeling himself, he plunged his fingers deep into the fea before him.

Frodo screamed in renewed agony and shock and Elrond gathered him close to prevent his struggles, even as his hand wrapped around the tiny piece of metal. The healer gagged, his nostrils assailed by the sickly odour of putrefaction. But this was a smell he had grown accustomed to in the aftermath of his last encounter with the Dark Lord, and not one he would allow to dissuade him from that which must be done, then or now. 

The metal felt slick in his palm, as though alive and seeking to slip from his grasp. Tightening his hold, Elrond tried to lift the shard from Frodo’s chest but the small body arched upward with his hand, as though unwilling to release it.

Around them the maelstrom of pain continued to spin, for a time subverting all Elrond’s attempts to concentrate upon a solution. Frodo’s eyes were pleading and the elf knew now that his own strength would be insufficient to this task, even with Vilya’s aid.

On the hand that grasped the shard his own ring of power pulsed coolly. Elrond slipped down into the peace of those polished blue depths, taking refuge for a moment before sending out his prayer for aid. Suddenly he felt other ghostly hands closing about his, one gnarled and glowing fire-red and the other fragile as butterfly wings and glimmering with starlight captured in crystal water.

Together, they lifted free of Frodo’s fea, the shard trapped firmly in their combined grasp. Once finally clear, Elrond murmured a spell of unmaking and felt the metal dissolve, trailing away as acrid green smoke between his fingers. The other hands melted away with it, pausing to stroke Frodo’s fea in leaving. It was several heartbeats before Elrond became aware of the silence, broken only by the soft sobs of the small form held in his arms.

Tenderly, Elrond gathered the little one closer in his arms, rocking him as a babe and whispering soothing encouragement. Through eyes of flesh once more, Elrond saw Frodo gaze up blearily into his and discerned a light shining through them. Not the harsh light of their shared nightmare, but the delicate golden shimmer of a spring day.

Elrond smiled. “Frodo. Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad.”

Frodo’s hand wrapped weakly about his proffered fingers and he closed lavender eyes on a soft sigh, sliding into peaceful slumber as he was gently drawn up from the last remnants of shadow. 

With a sigh of his own Elrond unobtrusively slipped Mithrandir the small knife. Of the slight weakening of Frodo’s fea that remained he decided to hold his own council for the present. Only time would tell if that would ever heal.

 

END


End file.
